


Keep Looking For Me

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Series: lost in orbit [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, John is a Mess, Letters, M/M, Pining, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock is a mess too, john is really angry, reichanbach feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4483010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I had to pretend to be dead and go halfway around the world to realise I was in love with you, John Watson, and you know what? That hurts even more.</p><p>I knew you were something dazzling. I knew that from the moment I saw you. I knew that you were tired and lonely and you needed someone absolutely mad to fix you again and I did, I fixed you. I was able to make you happy and I was able to make you laugh and nothing on earth can compare to that feeling.</p><p>I knew you were dangerous. That I had never, ever met someone like you before and I had a feeling, no I knew, that you were going to turn everything upside down and I was going to fall so hard. I knew, from the moment I saw you, that something beautiful and precious and brilliant and mad had walked into my life, and how was I going to live without you now? I had to have you in my life. I had to, I had to, I had to.  You were the best idea I ever had. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and nothing like you will ever happen to me again."</p><p>This was their dance. This slow, sure, undeniable pull of the Earth towards the sun.</p><p>And now he was gone, and John still found himself moving towards a body that was no longer there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Looking For Me

***

_So it's summer, so it's suicide,_

_So we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool._

_***_

People said it would get easier.

People were wrong.

The fact was that he revolved around him, like the earth around the sun, and now he was gone; and yet he found himself swaying, gravitating towards a body that was no longer there.

When John closes his eyes he can see crimson seeping through his face. He can see his coat sodden with it, he can see his shirt red when it should be white and eyes that are grey, lifeless, dull, dead—

The human body is so fragile, in the end. Even Sherlock, who was always invincible. Who, to John, seemed to be made of steel and diamond and titanium, all of that single minded, focused energy honed to perfection...

Sherlock who was mad and brilliant and who seemed to made of fire that burned bright with rage and passion and beauty, but

in the end, it's all physics.

Even Sherlock. Physics, in the end.

When the body breaks, it bleeds. It bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and it does not stop, no matter how much you will it to. Even when John looked at it staining the pavement, all he could think was  _that's his blood, that's Sherlock's blood, my best friend's blood, it's not where it's supposed to be, please God let him live. Please, please, please. Please don't take him away from me. It's too soon. It's too sound, I need to tell him things, I need to—_

His own broken, hoarse voice sobbing  _he's my friend, let me through, please he's my friend._

And when he was back home, clothes streaked with another man's blood, he was so tired, so tired. And maybe that was the secret of it; he would go to sleep and it would all be a terrible nightmare. And he would walk into the kitchen and Sherlock would have set fire to something and he would demand that John make him tea and the silence in his head would be gone and everything would be  _back to normal._ Because surely this was not real. Surely, Sherlock had drugged his tea with a mind altering substance and it was all just a dream  _oh god please let it be a dream._

But it was not a dream. It was so achingly painfully real that the reality of it could tear his skin to shreds. Reality was the empty bed that the bastard never slept in, the unfinished experiments that would remain unfinished, and the armchair near the fire that no one would sit in again because it belonged to  _him_ and now he was gone.

John stared and stared, thinking maybe if he concentrated hard enough time would reverse and he'd have him back again.

The numbness turned to anger before grief choked his heart. Yes, first it was fury because  _how could he leave him like this._ How could the arrogant clot just  _assume_ that John could survive, that John wouldn't fall to pieces without him.

Sometimes John wakes up gasping thinking he'll see Sherlock next to him.

Somehow it's always a surprise when he isn't.

He slept in Sherlock's bed for as long as he could, inhaling his scent and crying, until the smell of shampoo and Sherlock and chemicals was long faded from the sheets. He held that stupid indecently tight purple shirt to his face and breathed and breathed, because it was all he had left, it was the only thing that remained of him, and John didn't know how long he could go on like this

Sherlock jumped off a bloody building; he might as well have taken John with him.

***

_It wasn't until we were well past the_

_Middle of it_

_That we realised_

_The old dull pain, whose stretched_

_Wrists and clammy fingers,_

_Far from_

_Being subverted_

_Has only slipped underneath us,_

_Freshly scrubbed._

_***_

_John,_

_I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts. It hurts like a physical thing, perhaps even more than a gun shot wound. Now I know what a gun shot wound feels like, so I can say that with some authority. Don't worry though, I'm fine. I think. I hope._

_But that's not the point._

_The point is that I miss you._

_And I wish I could tell you this in person, I wish that I could send you this letter and you could see it and realise that I do care for you, that you are the single most important thing to me, and I did this all for you, and I just hope that you understand that. I don't need you to forgive me, because I don't deserve that much. But I want you to understand._

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

There was a lot of shouting. A great deal of shouting. The first few weeks comprised entirely of John suddenly becoming so angry that he kicked everything he could find.

And one evening, when John was too exhausted to cry anymore, a picture slid out of a book. It wasn't a particularly good picture, but that wasn't important. He had no idea who had taken it. It couldn't have been Sherlock, because Sherlock was in the picture, but he was betting his money on Greg. In the picture, John was looking up at something, a confused expression on his face, seemingly oblivious of what was happening around him. Sherlock was behind him, looking straight at him, eyes narrowed like he was deducing John, lips pursed. It was an odd expression on Sherlock's face, like he couldn't quite figure something out. John closed his eyes and he could remember that feeling, that odd, swooping sensation in his gut when Sherlock looked at him like that; all that brilliant, maddening, clever,  _attention_ focused on  _him._ Plain, old, ordinary John Watson. Sherlock looked at him like he was fascinating.

_Mirrors and shop windows_

_Returned our faces to us_

_Replete with tight lips and the_

_Eyes that remained eyes..._

John looked at it for a few seconds before the precarious well of his emotions cracked. He stuffed the picture back inside the book and threw it to the other side of the room where it fell to the floor with a dull thud. And then John marched into the kitchen and grabbed a plate and flung it in a random direction, watching it splinter on impact and the tinkling sound of china as the pieces littered the floor. And more followed, cups and plates and bowls and utensils, John threw and threw.

"John?  _John!"_ Ms. Hudson's voice wafted through the door and she threw it open. John was barely aware of her shocked gasp at the carnage John was creating. John didn't care. Ms. Hudson stomped up to him and grabbed his arm and with a great deal of strength for a very small woman, and pushed it down.

"Stop it," she said firmly. "Stop it."

John's arm fell weakly by his side and he screwed his eyes shut. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to break things. John's knees buckled and he slid to the floor and Ms. Hudson kneeled beside him, turning his palm up and looking at the weeping scratches.

"You're hurt," she said softly. "Oh, John."

"Good," he grunted, his voice raspy with disuse. It felt like the first word he had uttered in years.

Ms. Hudson didn't say anything. She managed to find a broom from somewhere and swept around John, the hush of the bristles the only sound for the next twenty minutes. When the kitchen was relatively clean, she left again for a few minutes and returned with anti septic and cotton and cleaned John's hands.

"John, it won't bring him back," she said quietly.

John sighed deeply, tears threatening to choke him again. "I know."

... _and not the doorway we had hoped for._

* * *

 

_John,_

_I think about you a great deal. The majority of my day is spent thinking about you. Usually it's small things, like whether you've had your morning tea or what jumper your wearing today. Don't wear the oatmeal coloured one, it's hideous; though I'm aware it's your favourite. Your taste in jumpers is terrible. Never stop wearing them._

_It's extremely cold here, which would explain why the letters are crooked; my fingers are shaking. I hope that doesn't bother you. The roof is leaking as well, though I can't complain. I have a roof over my head after weeks. I have a great deal to be thankful for. What I'm most thankful for is that you're alive. You're alive, and safe, and moderately happy, I assume. Which is more than I can ask for. I want to come home. Very much. I am trying desperately hard to come home._

_I would come home and Baker Street would be the same and you'd be sitting in your arm chair reading a book but you're not really reading, I can't believe you think I actually fell for that. How on earth could John Watson just sit and read a book? If you were me you'd realise how funny it is._

_I want that so much, I can see it if I close my eyes, I want it all back so much I can practically taste it. I feel like I didn't spend enough time telling you how important you are to me, and that is a terrible thing, because I don't know if you know, and if I don't come back John you need to know! You need to know that nothing on this planet is more important to me than you, and you'd kill for me, I know- but I want you to know that I would kill for you too, in fact I would die for you, as long as it kept you safe. I can't believe you don't know that. Do you know that? Oh god I wish I could tell you John. I can't think straight right now because now I've worked myself into a frenzy because what if I don't come back and you'll never know how important you are to me? John you are the most important thing to me. Ever. More than The Work. I would choose you over The Work. Every single time. I would cry out of boredom but you would keep me sane._

_I've taken some deep breaths. I'm calmer now._

_You wouldn't believe how stupid people are here. They're intolerable. Even more than London. But, to be fair, anyone who isn't you is intolerable. Your absence is like a physical thing. I can feel it, and it is entirely undesirable and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. Least of all to myself. I have realised that living without you is extremely difficult. I had assumed it wouldn't easy, but I didn't know how much it would hurt._

_More than bullet. A thousand times more than a bullet._

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

The nightmares, John thinks, will be the death of him. And not just any nightmares, the same horror, over and over again. Sherlock falls, and he breaks, and there is so much blood everywhere. And John is just standing there, like before, his voice gone and his knees week and panic threatening to overwhelm him.

What tears him apart, however, is remembering how he just stood there, unable to say anything that would make him stop, step back from the edge. What's funny is that that was the moment he realised he loved him, that when he realised that he couldn't live without him; that for a second the only thought rushing through his head was:  _He can't do this. He can't leave me like this. I can't do this without him._ He was in love with him, and he wouldn't be able to live without him. And he didn't tell him.  _He didn't tell him._

He had been so lonely. So alone. And Sherlock had swept into his life, with his dazzling brightness and crystal madness and John had suddenly realised, in a moment of revelation, how dark his life had been before that very moment. And ever since then everything had been adrenaline and breathless gasps and laughter so hard it made his sides hurt but he had felt so  _alive._ And now John had a heart that was beating and lungs that worked but all he could think was  _what for?_

And now he was gone, and John looked at the gun in his bedside drawer and wondered what it would taste like in his mouth. One last mystery solved. One last question to answer.

_Look at me, Sherlock. Happy now? Is this what you wanted? Come back you son of a bitch. Come back._

_***_

_His wounds healed, the skin a bit_

_Thicker than before,_

_Scars like train tracks on his_

_Arms and on his body underneath his_

_Shirt_

_***_

One of those mornings he had woken up and walked into the sitting room and Mycroft had been sitting there, neatly suited as ever, put together and perfect and with an expression of polite interest on his face that John wanted to tear off. John wanted to run at him and punch him on his smug face.

Instead he gave a short bitter laugh at the sight of him and said, "Whatever you're going to say, hold it. I can't have this conversation without some tea."

Mycroft looked a bit alarmed. "Alright," he said.

John made two cups of tea and brought them into the sitting room. Mycroft was sitting in his chair. Which was fine, because he didn't think he could bear to see someone else sitting in Sherlock's chair. So he passed him his tea and sat down on it himself, feeling his heart ache a little bit because it was rapidly losing the shape Sherlock had forced it into; it was becoming a regular,  _normal,_ chair, and the imprint of Sherlock on it was fading.

"So, why are you here?" John asked. His voice sounded scratchy to his own ears.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sipped the scalding liquid. John had a sudden vindictive thought along the lines of  _I hope it burns his tongue._

"You seem...well," he finished off delicately.

And John burst out laughing. It was a horrible, hysterical kind of laugh that sounded quite deranged. John didn't care. The complete  _ridiculousness_ of that statement made him want to laugh and laugh. But because it had been a very long time since he had  _actually laughed,_ it didn't sound like on at all. It sounded rather frightening.

"Well?" he spluttered. "Oh yeah, I'm peachy."

"I didn't mean—"

"I don't care what you meant," he snapped suddenly. John felt exhausted again. He felt tired all the time these days, and now he understood why Sherlock hated dealing with people so much. It was so  _tiring._ John didn't feel like talking anymore, he didn't feel like doing anything. Because talking would inevitably lead to  _talking about Sherlock,_ and he wasn't ready for that. He doubted he ever would be. What he wanted to do was slip under the covers and sleep until he was dead.

"You haven't left the flat in two weeks," Mycroft pointed out mildly.

"I don't have any reason to," John countered. "Are you quite finished?"

"I hear you're planning to move out," Mycroft ignored him and continued drinking his tea.

"Of course I'm bloody well moving out," John spat. "How the hell am I supposed to live here?" He wanted to say the  _real_ reason he needed to leave, that he could hear violins sounding in the middle of the night, or a deep voice saying something excitedly in the next room, or a sudden exclamation of " _John!"_ That it was so  _hard_ going into the kitchen, now that it had been cleared of experiments, that John could barely sleep at night because the silence was driving him mad.

"I can't afford the rent by myself anymore."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft said. "Ms. Hudson would never let me hear the end of it if you left. The rent is hardly a problem. And besides, Sherlock would not want you to leave the flat. Baker Street without John Watson? He would hate it. "

John screwed his eyes shut. "Yeah well, Sherlock's fucking dead."

***

_Try_

_Explaining a life bundled with_

_Episodes of this—_

_Swallowing mud, swallowing_

_Glass, the smell of blood_

_On the first four knuckles._

_***_

_Dear John,_

_It has been eight months, two weeks, four days and nineteen hours since I last saw you. It feels like a decade. It feels like forever._

_The letters are crooked again. It's hard to get them straight. People do think up ingenious ways of torture here. But not really ingenious. If you know what I mean. Textbook, really._

_I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I miss you terribly. I miss you so much that it hurts, and I've said this so many times before but that's because of how accurate it is. I sleep so rarely now, even less than before, and when I do I just hope I dream of you because that's the only way I can see you. What a terrible thing it is to think you're here and then to have to wake up._

_To wake up and look at an empty room and to think that a moment ago I was in Baker Street and you were complaining about something as usual, but then I wake up and I realise I'm more than a thousand miles away from you and I have no idea when I will see you again and oh god John it hurts so much._

_I had to pretend to be dead and go halfway around the world to realise I was in love with you, John Watson, and you know what? That hurts even more._

_I knew you were something dazzling. I knew that from the moment I saw you. I knew that you were tired and lonely and you needed someone absolutely mad to fix you again and I did, I fixed you. I was able to make you happy and I was able to make you laugh and nothing on earth can compare to that feeling, John, of making you happy._

_I knew you were dangerous. That I had never, ever met someone like you before and I had a feeling, no I knew, that you were going to turn everything upside down and I was going to fall so hard. I knew, from the moment I saw you, that something beautiful and precious and brilliant and mad had walked into my life, and how was I going to live without you now? I had to have you in my life. I had to, I had to, I had to. I couldn't let you leave, never, ever. And then Moriarty ruined everything and I had to leave to keep you safe and I knew that leaving you would be difficult. I underestimated just how much. You were the best idea I ever had. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and nothing like you will ever happen to me again. Nothing could ever, ever, replace you._

_I didn't realise I was going to fall in love with you. I knew I needed you. I knew that you were perfect for me. But I didn't know just how much I was going to fall. And I did, and I didn't realise the whole time I was falling, and now here I am with a broken foot and cigarette burns, writing in ditch that stinks of dead rats and this is when I realise that I love you, and that makes it all a little easier and a great deal more difficult._

_I want to be the best thing that ever happened to you. I want you to look at me and stop breathing, like how I feel when I look at you. I want you to adore me just like I adore you. And that is selfish, because I'm really not. I want you to be absolutely mad about me, just like I'm absolutely mad about you, but that is unfair because I cannot ask for things I cannot have. So I'm going to be a good man and be content that you are safe and happy, even if I'm not the one that makes you happy._

_My experiments are failing. I didn't know love could hurt this much._

_I am a mess. I feel like a mess. Everything about me is a mess. And the thing was, I was a mess before I met you and I didn't even know. Do you realise how absolutely ridiculous that is? And then you came and I thought to myself, I am a complete mess, and I think this man can clean me up. And you did, John, you did, and now I'm so far away from you and I can feel myself falling to pieces again._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

One year, John thought, was surely long enough to get over someone. At least, to get over them partially. Enough to not, you know, drink yourself into oblivion because of how horrible everything is. It was just a trip to the pub, that's what Lestrade had said, Lestrade had told him that he needed to get out and return to the land of the living, and it made sense to John at the time. Now he knew it was the most terrible idea he had ever had.

John had come home and fallen into the sofa and passed out and suddenly jerked himself awake when he heard violin music from somewhere.

He blinked rapidly, his eyes feeling like sandpaper and his mouth so dry he didn't think he could even open it.  _What time is it?_ He thought blearily, passed the pounding in his head.  _Am I dreaming again? Some kind of nightmare? Must be a nightmare, it always is..._ He strained his ears. Yep. Definitely violin music. The sofa creaked under him as he tried to get up, muscles protesting. Why was he still here in this house?

"Who is it?" he rasped. The room was dark, the only light coming through the window, illuminating it only slightly. The violin music grew louder.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

He thought he saw someone move. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the darkness. There was a lamp here-somewhere- he flailed his hand around a bit but his co-ordination seemed a bit off.

"John, you'll hurt yourself."

John almost fell off the sofa.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed, and Sherlock frowned at him heavily from the armchair.

"Why were you sleeping on the sofa? Your shoulder will get stiff and your back will hurt. Honestly, John, what have you been doing to yourself? You look terrible." Sherlock shook his head in frustration. John stared at him.

"You're supposed to be dead," he said.

That-can't-be-Sherlock gave him a sad, haunting smile. His skin was too pale, his hair too dark, and his eyes weren't the right colour. They were more luminous somehow. But he did  _look_ like him.

"Yes," he replied.

John nodded, wondering how far gone he really was. "Are you a ghost?" he asked, disgusted at the sound of hopefulness in his voice. But he couldn't help it. If this was a ghost, it meant Sherlock was still  _here,_ and, well, he would still be able to feel his presence, and Sherlock wouldn't be  _gone,_ not quite—

"I'm not a ghost," Not-Sherlock admitted. "I'm a figment of your imagination."

"If you were my imagination I'd imagine you  _naked_ , _"_ John muttered, falling back into the sofa ad feeling like he was going to cry again. An adult didn't cry like this. An adult shouldn't be feeling like he was on the verge of tears all the time. But for a moment he had actually thought that Sherlock had come back, even if it  _was_ as a ghost, but at least...at least...

"I'm a figment of your imagination, not a  _sexual fantasy,_ " Not-A-Ghost-Sherlock said petulantly, sounding deeply offended. John couldn't take it anymore. He was going crazy. He was hallucinating. He needed to get out of this fucking house.

"Go away," he croaked. "Why the fuck are you here? To torment me?" He threw a cushion at him but it flew right through. Sherlock looked back, unimpressed.

"You dreamed me up, I can't just  _go,_ " he pointed out maddeningly.

"Just  _go,"_ he shouted suddenly, gesturing in the general direction of the door. "I can't fucking look at you anymore, you lunatic, do you have any idea how much it  _hurts?"_

"You need to really  _want_ me to go," Sherlock told him desperately. "Come on, John."

"I fucking  _prayed_ to you, I told you to stop being dead, and you just-you just— _how could you do this to me_?" John couldn't breathe anymore, he couldn't, the sobs threatened to choke him. His hands flew to his hair, and he felt like he was going a bit mad. "How do I do this," he said, frustrated. "How am I supposed to be in love with someone who's dead?" John covered his face with his hands and tried to stop the sobs from coming out of his throat.

When he opened his eyes Sherlock was gone.

***

_We pull our boots on with_

_Both hands_

_But we can't punch ourselves awake_

_And all I can do_

_Is stand on the curb and_

_Say sorry_

_About the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine_

_***_

_Dear John,_

_It may be possible that I miscalculated. It is highly likely that I loved you from the moment I saw you. I hope you never see these letters, it would be awful. I know exactly what you would say. I would hate to see you horrified or shocked and if I came back, if, and you didn't want me then, you might move out and I can't have that. But I don't know if I will come back so maybe I should have told you? Would that have been a better thing to do? I don't know. I'm confused. I can't understand anything and I want you and I need you so desperately. How did I live before you came into my life? Maybe I didn't. It feels like everything was black and white, monochrome, horribly boring and then suddenly there's so much colour. Therefore I can divide my life into two categories: Pre John and Post John. Pre John was horrible. I would have died of boredom had you not come into my life. I would have died of loneliness. I might have set myself on fire out of boredom and consequently died._

_What are you doing now? Do you miss me? Do you think of me? It's selfish of me to want you to miss me, but I won't be sorry for what I did, I'll never be sorry for doing what I did because it's kept you safe and that's what important. Keeping you safe is my life's goal. I didn't have a goal before you, and now I do, and that goal is keeping you safe. Have I made myself clear? I won't apologise._

_I'm so tired. I feel exhausted. I want to sleep but it's too dangerous to sleep right now because I might not wake up. I broke my left wrist and it hurts a great deal. The doctor was an idiot. Or, to be precise, (because I'm always precise, you know that) the doctor wasn't you._

_I miss you so much._

_I miss you, John, I miss you so much. I miss your jumpers and you making me tea and shouting at me when maggots infiltrate the butter and I miss how you smile at me when I say something clever. It's been so long since someone told me I was clever. The last time I said something clever (fourteen hours ago) I got two broken fingers in return. On my left hand, though, so I can still write but it's difficult. (It's the same man who broke my wrist, but at least he didn't do anything much to my right hand so I suppose I'm lucky) But I miss you, oh god John I miss you I miss you._

_Sometimes I think that when I'll see you again I'm going to kiss you. I'm going to kiss you and kiss you and tell you that I love you desperately, maddeningly, that I've loved you ever since you walked into St Barts with your limp and your military haircut, I loved you when you shot that cabbie, I loved you when I saw you covered in Semtex—I was frightened then, so frightened, all I could think was—I've barely even known him, I just met him, I didn't realise I wanted him so much until now, fate cannot be so cruel as to take him away from me now, not now, I need to tell him so many things,—I thought you were adorable when you were jealous of the woman (don't deny it, you absolutely were)—but the point I'm trying to make is that I loved you every single moment I knew you, and maybe even before that, I just didn't know. Maybe I was waiting for you my whole life and I didn't even know it. That sounds dangerously close to soul mates and the entire idea of it is ludicrous, but sometimes, sometimes- I don't mind it quite so much, not when it's obvious that if I had a soul mate it would have to be you. Mycroft would laugh at me but that's because he's an idiot._

_I love you. I wish I could tell you. Maybe if I told you before, maybe, just maybe, if I was very, very, very lucky, you might have even loved me back. And I could have spent that time with you- I think of all that time I just wasted, letting you go on all those horrible dates with those vapid women who didn't know a thing about you—maybe if I had told you, you would have stayed home. Maybe if I had just kissed you, maybe, maybe, maybe_

_You are the most perfect human being on the planet._

_I miss you so much. I love you. I just want to come home to you._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

_***_

_I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but_

_I wore his jacket for the longest time._

_***_

 

_Richard Siken, Little Beast_


End file.
